


Guilt

by objectlesson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Codependency, Dean is guilty and fucked up, Depression, Disassociation, Fight Sex, Incest, M/M, Mental Illness, Robo Sam, Soulless Sam Winchester, Trauma, Violence, dub con, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Sam is his soul, then Dean's not fucking Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guilt

**Author's Note:**

> I love Sam without his soul. He's such a sex machine. I've ben wanting to write about how Dean might have felt fucking that Sam for awhile now...this was the super angsty result. I hope it's enjoyed. I don't own them.

If Sam is his soul, then this body trapping Dean against stretch of wall between the fridge and the kitchen counter top, these hands rucking up his shirt and digging fingertips into the divots of his spine, this mouth biting the place his jaw curves into the tendons of his neck...this is not Sam. Dean is not sure who he is, what _it_ is. 

Flesh, in the shape of his brother. A hard dick rutting up against his hip. The same clumsy thumbs working the buttons of Dean’s fly open, the almost-same smell of salt, soap, leather. Maybe something missing. Not Sam, if Sam is his soul. 

Not-Sam shoves Dean up onto the counter like he were made from something much lighter than blood and skeleton and muscle and pain. He holds Dean’s legs on either side of him, thrusts up between his thighs, sucks bruises onto his throat. He touches Dean with a bold, mindless, hunger that makes Dean feel weightless and weak. Ways that _his_ Sam needed to be coaxed into, ways _his_ Sam was afraid of. 

He thinks of his Sam, who is so aware of his mass and his weight and his power that he holds back, touches Dean like he’s a glass version of himself instead of the same burned, scarred mass of material Sam’s hewn from. Dean always had to hurt his Sam when they were like this to get him to lose control, to slam him up the nearest vertical surface and kiss him so hard he saw white. He always had to hurt him, push and push until Sam broke, and hurt him back. 

Dean wants to say _Sammy_ , like he used to. He wants to bury his hands up to the wrist in this stranger’s hair, pull it until he makes the noise Sam used to make, the hiss with the tears in the back of it, making it wet. But he can’t. Not-Sam holds his face in both huge, scraping palms and kisses him deep, won’t let him move anywhere, won’t let him twist away.

Dean kisses back because he is so sick, so desperate, so pathetic, so _fucked-up_ that he will take what he can get from this person who isn’t his brother. He’s so sick, so desperate, so pathetic, so _fucked-up_ that he’s getting off on it. He’s feeling the same tide of rage and hurt and love and insanity that he feels when Sam is on top of him, when it’s _Sam_ who’s forcing his fingers into the slick of his mouth, _Sam_ whose stretching him open over the thick shaft of his cock. 

He’ll take when he can get. 

“Sammy,” he says, broken, even though it’s not Sam. 

\---

It’s the first time since they shoved the thing back inside Sam that Dean’s been alone with him. He’s just taken a shot of Jack Daniels but he’s still shaking, backed up against Bobby’s table under all its books and stacks of lore and legend, watching his brother watch him, his brother with lines through his forehead which he hasn’t seen in a year, a slouch to his shoulder his palms have longed for when they were only able to smooth across steel. 

Bobby’s footsteps echo into the living room, and they hear the door slam behind him. He’s not stupid. He knows there are things he doesn’t want to see.

Dean’s eyes drop to the floor, and he feels Sam approaching him, the heat of his body making the air between them shift into some live wire in an electrical storm. 

Then, a hand at his hip, rough fingers pushing just up under the lowermost hem of his teeshirt, unsure, careful. Sam. 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice, Sam’s forehead pressed into his, the weight of his head gently rolling back and forth against that pivot point. “I... Do you still...” and his voice gets low, shudders and stops in his throat as Dean’s eyes cut up to meet his. He blinks, like it’s been a year since he’s seen that shade of green. 

“Course I do,” Dean says gruffly, watching his hands move to the longed-for bunch of his shoulder even though he’s not even sure he can do this again, if he can be this anymore. “But it’s hard. Always hard,” he says, and it doesn’t even make any sense. This feels too real, and he grips Sam’s forearms, says, “Sam. _Sammy,_ ” just to hear those words touch the air and be heard by the person they belong to.

There are things Sam should know, thinks Dean doesn’t want to tell him. Can’t tell him. _You were gone for a year, but your body was here. This might be the first time since we stopped the ending of the world since you touched my skin, but it’s not the first time I’ve touched yours._ His lips open, close. Sam’s brow is so knit, so tight and creased into that familiar shape between his eyes, and Dean can’t help it. He cups the back of Sam’s head, he brings his lips to that labyrinth of tense skin and muscle and kisses it. 

“You’ve never kissed me there,” Sam says. 

“Thought you were gone,” Dean answers simply. Not _thought I was stuck loving all I had left of you. Thought I was stuck with your smooth forehead, your straight back._

“I’m here,” Sam whispers. “We did it. It’s over.” 

Dean almost laughs, his hands trembling, his eyes closing because Sam smells _real_ , like _his_ Sam, like there’s more fear in his sweat, and it’s killing him, it’s bowling him over with the tide of things he really thought he’d lost this time. He presses his face into Sam’s hair, inhales. 

Sam’s fingers graze over the trenches between muscle in Dean’s stomach. There’s no pressure to his touch, like he’s asking a question. Even though Dean is the one whose whole body is in tremor, whose breath is staggering from him, whose eyes are ceding all their green to pupil. Sam sinks into Dean’s body when Dean finally kisses him, like he’s drowning. Dean drowns him. 

He decides that this is too good. Sam blind and surging against him, taking his lead, manipulable in his hands, pulling back every now and then to thread his hands through Dean’s hair, to drink him in with his eyes like he still can’t believe they won the fight they fought to end the ending of the world. 

_He can’t know_ Dean thinks, biting _his Sam’s_ lips. _He can never find out_. Dean realizes he has a chance to protect his baby brother again, and his whole body sings with the familiarity of it, this thing he can try to be good at again. 

They’re in Bobby’s study but Dan doesn’t even _care,_ not with Sam shoving his palms under the waistband of his jeans, but with Sam pulling himself out of his own boxers and kissing Dean slow, hard, like a lover would. 

Sam sucks on his tongue, grinds into Dean’s stomach, the head of his dick leaving a trail of precum glistening in the golden hair under Dean’s navel. Dean drops to his knees, teeth showing in the smile he smiles before he takes his brother in all the way. 

\---

Sam finds out. 

He’s so sorry, so guilty, so full of shame Dean can taste it in his spit. And Dean _knew_ it would be like this. He knew Sam would blame himself for everything. Sam has that expression of overwhelm plastered all over him like clothes in the rain, that sopping, wet self-loathing weighing him down, buckling his knees. 

Sam says words. They all sound like _penance_ to Dean. They all sound like _repentance_. He wants to remind Sam that there is a God, there are angels. And the last thing they need or expect is some soul paying his debt. He wants to remind Sam, _that wasn’t you, if you are your soul. That wasn’t you._

He’s gotta make him forget.

He crushes Sam under his body, palms across his chest with his nails as deep as he can get them. Sam’s skin is pulled so tightly over all of his muscle Dean can’t get a fist in him, but he wishes he could, wishes he could hold onto him with his hands, force the guilt out his pores. He mouths up his throat, bites the junction between his neck and shoulder so hard Sam winces, jerks underneath him like a structure collapsing to its wires and pipes and foundations. Dean digs his knee up into Sam’s tented shorts, feels the line of his dick hot and iron-hard against his thigh. 

“Sammy,” he grinds out through his teeth. “Feel me?” 

“Yeah,” Sam breathes, arching up off the bed to press his hips into Deans. And Dean thinks he has him, thinks he’s wiped Sam’s walled up mess of a brain free of guilt if only for this moment, their flesh sealed, their lips raw and worried from the other’s stubble, scars, teeth. But them Sam rolls his head against the mattress, eyes fluttering open, the hazel is nearly blacked out with pain, regret. “Dean,” he chokes. “Dean...before...when I didn’t have a soul...” 

Dean’s blood ices over, his heart beating blood hard and hot to his ears. “Shutup, Sam.”

“Did we do this? Did I--”

Dean digs his elbow into Sam’s throat, shuts him up as best as he can, shoves his tongue into his mouth. Sam thrashes underneath him, chokes under his weight. Dean remembers having a stranger’s elbow in his throat, a stranger’s tongue in his mouth. Sam’s smell all around him, but not quite right, not quite _Sam_. His breath catches, his heart hammering hard in his chest, too much blood, too many bones apart from Sam’s heart. 

Their kiss breaks, shatters into pieces around them and Dean doesn’t want Sam to know what it was like, how sick, how desperate, how pathetic, how _fucked-up_ he was when he had Sam’s body without Sam inside. 

But Sam can tell the instant their mouths slide apart, he can tell by the way Dean looks down, the way Dean tightens his grip and bites the tattoo over his heart so hard there are little bloodless indentations in his flesh, the hollowed out shape of Dean’s incisors. 

“I did, didn’t I?” He sits up abruptly, upsets Dean’s shaky balance and almost loses him. “Did I hurt you?” He says very seriously, hand rising to tenderly cup Dean’s cheek and Dean can’t take this, he _hates_ this, he wants to swallow Sam’s guilt, assume it into his bloodstream.

He smacks Sam’s hand away, hard, pins him back down to the mattress with the broad flat of his palms. “Sam. I said _shut up_.” 

“Dean,” Sam pants, still hard against Dean’s thighs, still shuddering under Dean’s hands, twitching like a small thing though the expanse of him is bowing the bed. “I’m s--” 

And if Dean has to hear that Sam is sorry _one more fucking time_ he is going to deck him, here, on the bed. Feel the collapse of cartilage under his knuckles, spill blood onto the mattress in Bobby’s guest room they’ve broken springs in before. He puts his hands on Sam’s throat, squeezes, forced the air from him. Then he kisses him hard, silencing the sorry. 

Sam tears away, brow knit in the way that _proves_ he’s Sam, Dean’s Sam. So hurt by the possibility that he hurt Dean when he didn’t know it. 

Sam has no problem hurting Dean, they hurt each other all the fucking time...but drawing Dean’s blood, bruising him, breaking his heart when he wasn’t aware? When he couldn’t remember? Sam can’t take it, and Dean knows it. He knows it because he couldn’t take it, either. 

He drags his hand over Sam’s mouth and jaw, forces a thumb between his lips. “You didn’t hurt me, Sam. You didn’t _make_ me, if you’re wondering,” he rasps. 

“But we did?” Sam spits Dean’s thumb out.

“We did,” Dean admits, voice hoarse and scraping, hand falling down to the rings of angry red around his brother’s throat, where he’s been wringing his hands. “But I wanted to. Or maybe I didn’t want to...but I had to. It wasn’t you, Sammy, but it was all I had. And I took anything I could get,” his voice breaks at the end, and Sam swallows the broken part, puts his hands all over Dean, his chest, his skull, his thighs, between them. 

“Gonna fix it,” he says, breathless. “Gotta let me fix it.” 

Dean knows there’s no way to fix any of this. He’s fucked; they’re both fucked. He cards his hands through Sam’s hair, kisses him so hard it turns into biting, fierce and hungry.His hands yearn for Sam, _his_ Sam, so they hold him apart, pin his arms above his head, feel places hard, hot, slick, shivering, scarred. 

Sam can’t fix a damn thing, but Dean is so sick, so desperate, so _fucked-up_ that he will take what he can get.


End file.
